Work Text:
The light flooded in through the open door into the Giant King's court, bathing the stone floor in a golden glow. Outside, the waves crashed into the shore, a ceaseless, peaceful harmony.
Derrick collapsed to his knees, limbs heavy with exhaustion. The salty sea breeze tugged at his hair matted with blood, dirt and sweat. With an expression that could almost be called greedy, he drank in his surroundings— the rose-gold sky of dawn with curling clouds that looked like grey fog, the birds that shrieked their awakening, the slate dark sea and the sun, gentle, peeked its head over the horizon. The warmth rushed over him, settling just beneath his skin. He gasped, bowing his head and his fingers dug into the rocky earth, scraping it till fresh, hot blood leaked through his cuticles.
This world, this ocean, this sun, this light— this was what they had been searching for for 2,583 years. This was what they had survived so long to see, this was what so many people had failed to see, and his breath stuttered and hot tears fell once more in earnest.
What made him more worthy to see this than any of his fallen friends, than his parents whom he had so callously murdered, whose blood was on his hands? Looking at the blazing glory of the Sun, he weakly wondered how could he ever be this?
He bit the inside of his mouth, the familiar, coppery tang of blood filling his mouth and the spaces between his teeth. It felt warmer than the sun, but more angry. He wiped away his tears, and clasping his hands together, fervently prayed, "The Fool that does not belong to this era—"
"Little Sun," a voice interrupted and Derrick jerked, turning back and his pupils contorted with a desperate grief as his gaze fell on the stone steps. His axe lay discarded there as well, accompanied by a sword that would never feel the heat of human hand again. A dark figure moved into his line of sight, and then Derrick found himself looking up at the cold yet kind face of Mr. World.
Worms were no longer shifting his features, and looking at him washed out by the ephemeral light, he looked younger than Derrick thought he was. A small part of him internally thought that his smile must be very pretty.
Mr. World knelt next to him, and cold fingers interlinked with his hand, slowly bringing them up till they lay on Mr. World's knee. He cast an assessing, almost disappointed gaze over the shredded limbs, before wiping the blood away with a soft handkerchief, and Derrick looked away, out at the sea.
"What happened?" Mr. World's voice broke through the silence.
Derrick bit his lip.
Mr. World sighed, before shifting till he was resting on his knees. "I'm sorry," he said, and Derrick tilted his head confused—
"Why?" he couldn't think of any possible reason for which Mr. World could be sorry.
Mr. World's lip twisted for a second in a brief approximation of a wry smile. "Well," he said, tying up the wounds with his handkerchief and Derrick moved to protest— "that's something people say when somebody close to you has died."
Ah. That was a bit odd. After all, in the City of Silver, death was a very common thing, like the darkness that surrounded them. Even the littlest child was very well acquainted with it. Would that change, then? when they moved to the world outside?
Derrick couldn't help but feel the tiny bit nervous and scared.
"It'll be alright," said Mr. World, as if reading his mind, and then he chuckled self-deprecatingly— "or perhaps that's wrong to say." His gaze, boring through the dirty lens of his glasses, seemed to see into the depths of his soul. It felt kind, like Mr. Fool's regard, and Derrick couldn't help but not be scared. "Everything will be alright because you will do your best."
There was a lump in Derrick's throat that prevented him from speaking. He swallowed with difficulty; it did not disappear. Warmth rushed to his cheeks, and he ducked his head again, not wanting to meet Mr. World's eyes.
A hand, comforting, came up to ruffle his hair. Derrick froze, and the hand paused and then the touch disappeared altogether. He couldn't help but feel disappointed.
"Little Sun," Mr. World said, and perhaps it was blasphemy, or Blessed really took after their gods but— "I'm very proud of you."
Embarrassingly, once more, he found wet tears trickling down his cheek and giving into the childish urge and his own weakness, he threw himself at Mr. World, wrapping his arms around the shorter man and began to cry again. Mr. World stiffened underneath him for a brief second, and Derrick wondered internally if he had made an oversight, before hesitant arms circled around him, slowly, unsurely patting him on the back.
Mr. World's chill seeped through Derrick's clothes, but it was still comforting, like ever-stretching grey fog and a long table with 22 seats that he had slowly started to associate with home.
He didn't know how long he stayed there, perhaps hours till he ran out of tears. Mr. World didn't complain as he rambled between sobs, and he wondered, wishfully, if his parents would be proud too.
Later, he would have to recompose himself and go back to the City. He would have to assume his new responsibilities as Chief, tell the people about the Sun and lead them out. He would have to deliver his report at the Tarot Club, and he would have to make arrangements. But for now, perhaps, he could have this no matter how selfish it was.
The sun rose above the horizon, bathing everything in all-meaning light. The night had passed, and the day had come.